


bits and pieces

by orithea



Series: tumblr prompts and 221bees [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fawnlock, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I write a lot of little ficlets on tumblr. Collecting them all in one spot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock deleted the stars because he though they were less important than two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash. Sherlock remembers the stars again because John will look pleased, surprised when he points into the night sky.

"That’s Boötes; the brightest star there is Arcturus."

John will smile because he’ll know what the words really mean. Sentiment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some soppy teenlock.

It’s just a half-term break—it’s not as though Sherlock will have to go without John for longer than a week, but the thing is that he’s never had to go without John at all, since they became friends. Since they became—

John sleeps in his room most of the time, because of course Sherlock has one to himself. The bed’s just a twin and it’s tight with both of them folded into it; Sherlock’s bed at home feels a bit like he’s rattling around in a space far too large for just one person. John should be here.

Sherlock sleeps with John’s school tie (easy enough to swipe—John’s careless with them and lets them fall to the floor when they’re no longer knotted around his neck) bunched up in his fist. It smells faintly like John—like home, and isn’t it strange that school wasn’t home until John came along?—and it will just have to do for now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawnlock.

There is snow falling softly, big flakes of it that settle into drifts on Sherlock’s antlers.

John thinks it’s too bloody cold to be out in, even all bundled up as he is, but he can’t resist watching. Sherlock had been sitting at the window closest to the fireplace when it started snowing, and gasped then ran out of the cabin—leaving the door wide open in his wake. He’s spinning in the snowfall now, grinning so wide it makes John’s heart hurt to see it.

“Sherlock!” John calls after him, “Sherlock, come back! It’s too cold for you be out in like this!”

“I’m not cold,” Sherlock says, as he bounds forward and shakes off the snow gathered on his tail and his antlers, but John wraps his scarf around him anyway and uses it to pull him close.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentiment!

Sometimes John wakes up with his face pressed against the curve of Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of him (had been, the whole time he slept), and thinks  _this_ —this is what I was fighting for. This is the reason I survived, made it through the infection, the rehabilitation, the… the  _after_ , and everything leading up to that day at Bart’s. I didn’t even know it, but I fought for it anyway.

Sherlock can’t read his mind—if he could, he would tell him that it’s ridiculous, that he was fighting to stay alive because of basic human impulses and because he’s John Watson, who never gives up. But Sherlock can’t read his mind, so when he notices—on these mornings—that John is being particularly tender, he will simply smile (sometimes whisper “Sentiment, really.") and stay in bed just a little longer than usual.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scent kink.

John’s backed against the door while Sherlock fumbles his shirt off, pulling wildly at the buttons then pushing it and the vest underneath over John’s head. It ends with John’s hands caught behind him in the fabric.

"You smell like the chase," Sherlock says when he nuzzles his face into John’s still sweaty neck. His lips travel down John’s throat, brush along the scar on his shoulder, and end at the tender skin under John’s left arm. His nose nudges into arm pit, inhaling deeply. “All adrenaline and arousal, London on your skin. That’s your essence, isn’t it?"

"That’s poetic—for you," John says through a breathy laugh. It turns into a groan when Sherlock bites him, sucks hard at the skin, then trails his lips down John’s torso.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little s&m, you know how it is

"Stop it," Sherlock snaps, "I can hear what you’re thinking and you’re being utterly pedestrian, because it’s nothing like that."

"I’m not—"

"Sometimes," Sherlock barrels on as though he’s been the only one speaking, and the next words out of his mouth could be  _when the world is completely beautiful and perfect and everything is right—_ only he’s not so far gone as to ever let something so close to poetic escape from his lips, “if I’ve been particularly brilliant, he’ll do as I ask and beat my arse so that I can hardly stand and then fuck me through it after ‘til I see stars and understand why he gives a damn about the solar system.”

"Well, I." Lestrade pauses, coughs self-consciously. "I wasn’t thinking anything—didn’t want to know, honestly."

John is looking mortified, because he cares about things like  _decency_  and  _tact_ , but Sherlock knows him well enough to tell he’s rather smug underneath it all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the solar system will never cease to be romantic to me

Sherlock has been still on the sofa for hours now, head (and toes, wriggling in time with some music John can’t identify) pointed towards the window where the curtains are flung open and—if he didn’t know any better than to think Sherlock is anywhere but deep inside his own head—John could swear Sherlock’s been watching the sky over Baker Street as the sky grows steadily darker and what feeble stars can be seen in the brighter light of the street lamps begin to come out.

John’s not entirely surprised when Sherlock breaks his silence by seemingly starting in the middle of a conversation. He’s more than used to that by now. What Sherlock actually says, however—

"It happens once every ten thousand years, but sometimes two stars crash spectacularly into each other and become a single star. And I can only think that I know exactly how that feels."

Casually, like it’s not a fucking pronouncement of miraculous proportions, like it doesn’t say to John  _yes, I’ve looked up that thing you teased me for knowing nothing about because it matters to you_ , like it doesn’t say even more, something terrifying and thrilling that John doesn’t like to examine too closely lest it all fall apart under the weight of his scrutiny.

"Me too," John answers, matching Sherlock’s tone, and delights in the genuine smile that it elicits from him, still sprawled there on the couch and not even looking John’s way.


End file.
